


plague upon the house

by millagross



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Mental Health Issues, Parent Death, Trans Male Character, implied - Freeform, the tenses are really weird in this one sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:40:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27065791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millagross/pseuds/millagross
Summary: After the Journal of the Plague Year rots his house from the inside out, Mike Crew gives himself a haircut.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	plague upon the house

The bathroom is stark white, but the bulb casts a sickly off-green glow upon the little cubicle, with one toilet and one sink, and what could probably be considered a bath, but Mike’s not going to chance the mystery mold he sees coming out of the drain, especially not after last week. He’s really here for the mirror that takes up half a wall, placed above the sink in a way that’s almost mocking, designed for morning hangover puking and men that come to the lodging to cheat on their wives. He’s not either of those, but it was still awfully embarrassing to see the manager first sneer at his request, and then recoil in disgust when he saw all the filth Mike trudged in. He hopes the man’ll stay away-he has a good amount of money right now, but he’d rather put that into a more permanent residence, or even for another book. (There's a buzzing fly in the lamp that sits on the side of the looking glass wall, and he's in half of a mind to stomp on it right now.)

Mike finally unties his hair, and watches as it flows down in loose chestnut waves over his shoulders. His mother always liked his hair, said it was like her own when it was younger. She even used to braid his into plaits every once and a while if he let her. It’s not as fine as it was now though-it’s so sticky he has to peel it apart, and he’s certain that there’s enough living things in there to make a barber call pest control. He had washed himself today, and again, and again, and again, until his hair was falling out and his skin was red and peeling, with bleach and hand sanitizer and everything else he found in the cabinet, and yet nothing managed to fully clean out the dirt. There’s still a thin film on his teeth that makes him click his tongue over them, back and forth, and there’s a smudge over his cheek that refuses to go. He _thinks_ that he managed to get out all the worms in his wrist, but just thinking about it makes it itch again, so he can’t be sure. 

Right after he had been struck by lightning, he had been afraid of showers-didn’t like the feeling. Reminded him of rain. His dad used to hold his hand when he had to get into the bath, let Mike hold onto him even when he had dug his little fingernails in so hard he had bled. His fingers are longer now, and grip onto the scissor handle to the point of being a bloodless white. Mike doesn’t want to think about his dad anymore. And still…

There was an awful, bitter moment that had flashed in his head the day his mum that they were feeling under the weather. _Alright,_ he had thought, _maybe you should have taken me more seriously._ What an awful thing to think about your loved ones, Michael. What an awful child you are! (Dominic would never have said these things, and yet for some reason, whenever Mike has that annoying little nagger one calls a conscience, it’s always his voice that takes the form of it.) 

If they had actually listened, and not just have given him meaningless platitudes about thinking positive and acting _normal_ , it still wouldn’t have worked out, Mike probably carted off to a therapist and the Lichtenberg Figure still waiting for him in the corner of his eye. 

He really knew it had started to get bad when they had begged him to stay housebound and tend to them, and oddly enough he had some voice in his mind telling him to say yes. To stay with the only people that had ever loved him. Maybe that’s what had fed the sickness more-the being ( he has no other word for them) that had regurgitated _Journal of the Plague Year_ , is associated with love, isn’t it? 

Enough distractions, though. If he does manage to finally get all the filth out, and his theory is correct, then the upside is that he won’t care about it anymore. A world without love does sound awfully convenient. 

Mike holds the scissors to a lock of hair right in the front. Be brave, he thinks. It’s filthy anyways. That last night, the stagnation of the bed had gotten too much for him and he had marched his way to that familiar bedroom down the hall, feet moving with an unwilling determination, as if he had been suspended on a string. Mike hadn’t even wanted to look at his father-he was an oozing stain in the corner of the room- but he remembers his Mum’s last words exactly, down to the intonation. 

“I love you, Michael,” she crooned, fiery from fever and delirious to boot, “You’re a son to be proud of.” A son to be proud of?

_Snip, snip, snip._

A son to be proud of doesn’t stay locked in his room all day reading. 

_Snip, snip, snip._

A son to be proud of doesn’t stay awake for days at a time until he’s half dead. 

_Snip, snip, snip._

A son to be proud of doesn’t-doesn’t- _see_ things that aren’t supposed to be there. 

_Snip, snip, snip._

And a son to be proud of doesn’t bring the house down on his parents. 

The haircut looks like he had done it with his eyes closed with one hand. To be fair to himself though, he really wasn’t paying attention. Dark contaminated locks fall into place around himself and the sink, creating a small circle around him, a holy little ring he fears to break. Mike runs his fingers through the short cut, relatively cleaner hair, and though it looks wretched, he gives himself a little grin in the mirror. He passes a little more as a boy now, at least! Then, he immediately feels a shameful bile rise up in his throat. Your parents are dead, and you’re smiling. 

With that sobering thought, his fingers clench around the sink as he realizes that with this, the mild veil the Crawling Rot has had over him while he held on the _Plague Year_ is broken for good. 

What will happen, Mike wonders, now that the book’s gone? He feels a familiar, nauseating terror clawing its way through his guts and tries not to whimper when the bathroom’s light becomes an unbearable burning white. The buzzing's stopped. Now that it's short, the scar is more visible, and he touches the part where it weaves around his neck gingerly, feeling the white hot power lurking within it. He has to find a new way to cover it up, but that's for later. 

Mike does a heel turn and walks out of the bathroom into the small bedroom to close the blinds (though he knows it won’t help, it’s a ritual he’s always felt like he _needed_ to do) and dive under the covers. He presses the blanket cloth to his nose so that the smell of ozone is buffered a little bit, even if it makes it hard to breathe, and he begins to roll back and forth as he hears the familiar teeth clattering sound of thunder. 

Some years ago, only just after the fourth or fifth time the Lichtenberg Figure had visited him, Mike had heard the creak of a door and had almost jumped out of the bed in terror expecting round two, but instead of the shaking storm, he had felt a hand come down upon his hair, brushing it gently until he fell asleep. He wishes that he could remember what the voice that accompanied it had said that night. 

It’s probably a good thing now that they’re gone. There’s nothing in his way now when it comes to his current pursuits, and having two people he needed to tend to hanging over his head would have blown up eventually either way. And of course, it’s not like they had ever really taken him seriously in the first place. 

And yet, there will never be another night where a hand rocks him to sleep, and there will never be another moment where his mother kisses his cheek and wipes his tears when he falls, and there will never be another shower where he’ll hold his dad’s hands so tight they turn white. He wishes he could have explained to them why he had brought that book of rot in there in the first place. Why he’s always been like this in the first place. But there’s no chance anymore, the house is all gone, and the only thing that’s left is a worm eaten hole in his heart.

Mike wants to cry, but nothing comes forward except a bitter groan of frustration. And in his heart, he thinks that’s for the better.

**Author's Note:**

> i think about baby mike crew every day of my life. i always had a little headcanon that he had long hair before he found the first leitner and he cut it all off afterwards


End file.
